


Tides That Bind

by maplewoodmoth



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen, Lmao guess I’m back on my bullshit again, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplewoodmoth/pseuds/maplewoodmoth
Summary: In which Horatio travels and tries to find himself (and a familiar face, friendly, when it doesn’t hurt the melancholy that remains in him) and happiness, in the process, afterwards.





	1. CHAPTER 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wide Eyes, Steady Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17518043) by [maplewoodmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplewoodmoth/pseuds/maplewoodmoth). 



> NGL it was either this or my sad sad attempt at a comfort scene between Horatio and Fortinbras and that would’ve been truly awful (it’s called: Closed Eyes, Shaking Fists) 
> 
> Anyway Guess I’m back on my bullshit in the Shakespeare sandbox! Hope you enjoy the ride, because I sure am! 
> 
> Also, this is for my wonderful commenter ‘lord what fools these mortals be’. Because you asked and because why not? Life is short and the universe is vast and uncaring.

This isn’t happiness, Horatio knows.

Life without Hamlet could never truly be happy, but it is at least something.

Traveling, he doesn’t have a lot. He didn’t leave with much besides a map, basic supplies and his wit about him, and even that almost wasn’t enough to fill his saddlebags. It’s a hand to mouth existence; he knows he could always go back home to his family (and he fully plans to... eventually. Maybe when he doesn’t feel so empty inside, maybe when he feels like more of a person and less of an empty reflection of who he once was). He tries not to think about it fully, but he knows without lying to himself that it will truly be a long time before he feels like enough of a person to return.

He could always return to Elsinore; but truly there isn’t much there for him aside from the too new graves: six (five, really in truth) in total. And Fortinbras. Well. Maybe in another life, if he hadn’t known Hamlet first, hadn’t lost Hamlet in the way he did- too fast, too soon, too painful. Maybe. But, well. He did, and no matter the conversations that they did or didn’t have; Horatio knows that the life he could’ve (not could’ve, might’ve) had at Elsinore had he stayed would have been an empty one. Meaningless and full of empty routine and ghosts that won’t stop haunting his every step.

Here, /away/ at least he can breathe. Hopefully it will be enough. 

Knowing himself, it probably won’t.

The shade of Hamlet that exists in his mind, present to nobody else but him, is no boon. Horatio knows the madness that communing with the dead that refuse to rest, and how it drives men. But in truth he is no man: just a boy playing pretend at adulthood as his heart shatters.

He thinks of the stories of Greek tragedies: Antigone, torn between family and duty; familial loyalty and loyalty to the system. He thinks of choices. He thinks of loneliness. He thinks of love. Real love; platonic or romantic; thinks of the people he has/had/has in his life. 

He travels onwards.


	2. CHAPTER 2

He travels to a small city in Italy, distances away from his home in Denmark. He meets another young man, berated by tragedy and haunted by ghosts- a survivor, like him. A victim of loss, like him. His name is Benvolio. 

He too lost his lover to a meaningless death: a victim of a tragic feud that took lives on both sides as easily as death does. He too lost his family, his friends, to grief and meaningless strife. 

He too is lonely, alone, a survivor, like him. Waiting, like him, for something to change in his life. 

There has been change, there always is change, brought about by death as it is. A pair of lovers from feuding families who died as they lived, together. In love but for a short time; three days? Horatio scoffs. Who knows love after only three days? What do you know about a person after only three days? Do you know their habits? Their likes, dislikes? How they take their tea? Their hobbies, their families? Do you know if they can sleep only in silence or in noise, racket enough to wake the dead? Do you know how he prefers dates to prunes, how he always sneaks apples to the horses in the stables, somehow even in the dead of winter? How he studies for exams with determination and writes his essays last minute, but with self awareness to know that his procrastination and penchant for overthinking will be his downfall one of these days? He is an all or nothing kind of love, Horatio knows.

He realises, then, that he is not talking about the doomed lovers anymore. Maybe he wasn’t in the first place, maybe he never was at all. 

When he says these things angrily, brokenly demanding, to Benvolio, expecting something, expecting anything. He does not expect the other man to bring him into a hesitant but crushing hug. 

He too is alone, Horatio realises. He too understands. 

"Love is pain, but it is worth it", the other man mutters. "Even if it is for a short a time." 

When Horatio offers for Benvolio to join him on his travels, he sort of expects the man’s decline. It hurts, but he understands it. Some people are linked to their sorrow, he knows. 

“Verona is my home” Benvolio says, “moreso, it seems, than Elsinore was yours”. Even though the truth stings, Horatio is too drained to find anger. He knows that Benvolio is like him, perhaps to an alarming degree; not just left behind by death, he is one of the only ones left to pick up the pieces; diplomatically and otherwise. And he will do so until he can’t; he will do so until it breaks him. 

“Maybe” Horatio hedges, “we will see each other again” it is a hopeless futility but an open wish. 

“Maybe” Benvolio agrees, “but probably not” he says, pulling Horatio down into a kiss. 

The days they spend together are anything but lonely, before Horatio goes; and even while they are both loving someone else, dreaming of the dead who left them behind, the company is nice.


	3. CHAPTER 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like I keep intending to write these stealth crossovers but like alright I guess

It’s not like Horatio makes it a point to visit countries and areas where tragedy has occurred. In fact it’s not even his intention. First time is just. Painful. Second time is a coincidence. Fifth time? Something is definitely up in the universe. 

The fact that Scotland has been throught three kings in as many months was something of a disturbing fact and the first hint that something isn’t quite right with the monarchy. 

“What do you know of love?” the new king asks Horatio, “what do you know of power and what it drives men to do?” he wonders suspiciously. Demands suspiciously, really. 

(Who is to blame him; men have died for less, fought for less- but it is these things that drive them. These things that they have chosen to act on. Horatio wonders about the new king’s family. Wonders if he has any left. Wonders if he wasn’t enough either. Wonders if he withers from it).

And what does Horatio know? Enough. Enough, too much, never enough, but enough.   
Enough that he watched a dynasty fall in a day, all felled by each other’s hands, friend and foe alike. 

“Enough” he croaks out, offended but weary. “Enough.”


	4. CHAPTER 4

It’s not that Horatio doesn’t believe in the supernatural: after seeing his... well. After seeing Hamlet driven mad with the need to prove himself to the uncaring ghost of his father- Horatio knows well enough to leave the supernatural alone to those better studied and more heart-strong and headstrong. 

He is not an unbeliever, but perhaps he believes too much in what calamity can arise from meddling (and listening) to forces beyond mortal comprehension. 

When Horatio meets the first mysterious woman, a maiden, off selling herbs at the marketplace; bundles of plants for less than a penny- aromas and messages that he finds familiar. He feels nothing besides curiosity and melancholy for those things left behind. 

He is filled with heartrending misery, for a moment, when he passed by the little cart where the maiden is selling in the city center, almost out of the way and definitely out of sight but for the small splashes of color and scent that fills the air like a half done oil painting, colors melting together. 

He can’t help but stop, drawn by nostalgia. 

“Flower for a lover, dear?  
Flowers for a boon?  
See what tales the flowers tell,  
before they rot so soon.“

“Thank you miss” Horatio defers, “I was drawn by nostalgia, nothing more. Merely missing my sister. And I would have nothing to offer you in return ma’am, boons from me are not boons at all; tis the quiet before the fall” he can’t help but rhyme, something about this young woman piques his linguistic side, perhaps it is the way she speaks, so elucidate for someone who appears not well educated. 

She nods, understanding, but beckons him closer and he is helpless but to comply when she harshly presses a bundle of greens into his hand that she none so gently pries open. 

She denies his poor attempts at paying her kindness back, and pushes him away. When he looks up, from his stumbling back; the cart, the flowers, and the maiden are gone. The only thing left remainder is the flowers clenched in his fist and some petals fluttering to the ground, gone in the flick of a greymalkin’s tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was brought to you by Gin Wigmore's music, specifically Black Sheep and Kill of the Night. 
> 
> Thanks to my friends m-nite and helheth for helping me figure out the witches! 
> 
> More to follow as soon as I get my head straight and my words out.


	5. CHAPTER 5

The crone greets him by name as easily as breathing, and Horatio starts with his suspicion on the tip of his tongue, before grace and manners and etiquette push it back to the bottom of his throat where it sits uneasily.

“And what wisdom do you have for me, grandmother?” He questions, cautiously. A grandmother has seen the birth of grandchildren and the death of friends. She’s very familiar to the cycle of life and it’s regrets. Too many missed opportunities and all that.

When Horatio meets the old twisted figure outside the churchyard, he is immediately caught off guard. Not many are out this late as he, skulking (and yes, sulking as he is) about the churchyard.

She doesn’t enter the graveyard with him, he notices. It is a consecrated graveyard, one he supposes, fit for a King (or Kings as the case is). He had been wandering the grounds, wondering about their lives and the people they left behind, inspecting the newly turned ground. He notices that the one man; the conqueror; the mad; the defeated; the man; Macbeth: it says he was married, but his wife’s grave is nowhere to be found.

Horatio wonders if that means his lover outlived him, or if it means something else. He dauntedly refuses to follow that train of thought- that way lies dangerous thoughts, too close for comfort. Maybe she is merely buried elsewhere with her family; maybe she yet lives- he is too cautious to follow that thought any further.

“Horatio, Horatio, greetings little boy, I warn you that your wanderings will bring you little joy. But words and warnings matter not” she laughs, wheezing like a windy day, “that’s the consequence most have forgot,” Her eyes are sharp as a hawks as she watches him watch her back. 

His feet shuffle backwards, “Leaving so soon? I can offer you a boon”, she reaches her hand out, fingertips just touching the edge of the graveyard wall.

“N-no grandmother”, Horatio stutters out. “Worry not about me grandmother, I will persist as I have always done, a hard day’s work is never won, it is earned.”

Grandmother cackles, her caws startling the magpies from the nearby bushes. “Ah clever boy, clever child, don’t make deals with the wild”.

He laughs, uneasily, but walks forward as she motions him towards the gate. He knows this is a bad idea but his feet seem to be moving of their own device and he is helpless, as always to stop. He wonders if the Graveyard Sow will help him now. 

When his feet stop, directly in front of the gate, he wonders if the Hearth Lamb is keeping her out and him in. 

The next move, he knows will ultimately be his choice. What will he do next? What will he do for knowledge? (What will he do to be known? Being acknowledged by the supernatural community is never a good thing).

“Horatio, Horatio, do you know what your name means?” The crone creaks out; old as the oaks, old as the hills and valleys. Rusty as the hinges of the simple gate in front of him, firmly closed.

Horatio doesn’t get a chance to respond, winded by caution, frozen with fear, before she continues.  
“It is the way that time flies faster than the human mind can glean. It is the song you cannot sing, it is the words you cannot hear.  
It is the way you watch those close to you go passing fast, my dear.”

“It is the way the memories of the lost are never truly lost, Because you of all the people know exactly what the living cost.”

Her words are a punch in the stomach and he fears he may be ill quickly.

The crone continues: “So timekeeper, timekeeper, stand tall and watch the skies, because you of all the people know that time is full of lies”.

With that final word, she turns on her heel with a wink, and without looking back, wanders off.

He realises that she has left her lantern on the garden wall. He hesitates to call out, call her back, but he does, eventually. He gets no response, but for the way the wick flickers.

Horatio is left standing at the gate, sweating and scared, and feeling like he has just been given a warning and an ultimatum. This is his fault after all, for asking.


	6. CHAPTER 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last and final warning

The woman who he now knows to be the mother, greets him without riddles or rhymes swaying her tongue as easily as her steps; and this is how Horatio knows she is the most dangerous of the three.

She walks strong, out of the shadows, with her head high and shoulders back, like a soldier used to carrying the world without bowing before his sins. Her hands though, he notices, shake. 

When she greets him by the docks, by the ship he is supposed to board, he actually doesn’t notice her presence until he feels a short sword pressed, gently to the back of his neck. 

He, as you would expect. Freezes.

He wets his tongue as one would whet their blade upon a stone: carefully, oh so carefully, knowing that he is in the presence of a power able to end his life with words as easily as weapon. 

Nobody appears to notice them, the air hazy around their figures, and Horatio knows he is truly on his own. 

“What can I do for you, ma’am,” he feels the blade pressed to the back of his neck waver before steadying. 

“A warning, dear boy. And, as my sisters before me offered, a boon.” 

“A boon I have no use for, my lady, but a warning I would be a fool to dismiss.” 

“You would be a fool to dismiss our boon; but I cannot fault you for your caution.”

“I” he swallows carefully, not turning his head, hands up to show lack of harm, “have not the best experiences with the works and words of those who hold more power than mortal.” 

“Ah yes” she hums, blade withdrawing slightly, “but your boy’s ghost was that of a mortal. My sisters and I are far from it.”

He still dares not turn around. Though his neck hurts from the tension of keeping it still. She has not shown herself to him, nor given him permission to look, and he would be foolish to think that even if her blade has withdrawn she wishes him no harm, despite her words. 

“The warning first, then” he relents. And without a word, the mother begins. 

“Haven’t you noticed, and haven’t you heard? The dust and the devil are more than just words.  
Haven’t you noticed, or have you not seen? The things in your head are more than just dreams.  
There’s something coming boy, something dark and unkind;   
He walks in the darkness and makes deals with the blind.  
So light up that candle boy, and wear your crown of thorns;  
The one who’s searching knows your name, and knows what grows where blood is shorn.”

He doesn’t have the breath to wonder what the boon is and if she will allow him to defer it. He does not get the chance before she speaks again. 

“May all your wounds be mortal, may the seasons rise and fall. May the road rise to meet your feet, may travelers be kind to you when they greet. May the trees stand tall, and all foes fall, your light is bright and words aren’t meek, so rise boy, rise, and let Wisdom seek.”

The mother is blood. She gives it freely for her family and she would draw it from all who threatens it. She has more blood on her hands then her sisters and she has as much guilt as the ocean yearns for the moon. Still, like the ocean, she rises after the fall. 

And so does he, after his knees hit the ground, after the winds have swept over him, after the terrifying omnipresence that has weighted his shoulders down with words has lifted. 

He leaps to his feet and finally spins around.

There is no one there. 

A knife lies on innocently on the cobblestones next to an empty sheath. He has a feeling that it is meant to be a gift. 

It doesn’t feel like it. 

It feels like a warning. Like a message in a bottle detailing the terrible storm that is about to arrive.


	7. CHAPTER 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horatio ruminates on the gifts given to him and wonders about the things the witches left unsaid.

The ship ride to Denmark. He thinks, he hopes, will be uneventful. 

He thinks of Beowulf, he thinks of Grendel and his mother and he wonders if he is more beast than man at this point. He has done things the Catholic Church would fault him for, spoken and communicated with the supernatural and embraced it: made deals with it, and divined the future with it’s help. 

Sometimes Horatio lies awake at night and wonders terrible thoughts: was the spirit Hamlet spoke to, listened to so ardently, actually his father? What do the witches mean? What was their boon, truly? Was it a curse? His name, he knows, means timekeeper- a joke from his mother, a truly educated woman, who would read him Greek tales in the original Greek to keep him entertained at a young age. Who studied to be a nun before she met his father and had him. A woman, he suspects, who would be appalled at how deep in the supernatural he has delved, but would be fascinated by his tales, holding him gently as if he is a small child again, scared of the dark. 

The fact that the second witch could conjugate his name brings him no comfort in the dark of his cabin at night, hammock rocking gently with the waves. It surprises him not, but it does bring his curiosity tumbling up from the depths of his stomach, where he has tried so hard to push it down so often. 

He finds his gaze straying to his pack, sitting innocently against the floor, and makes a decision. He stands from the calm rocking of the hammock, and wanders over, his steps swaying with the boat. 

Horatio finds himself on his knees, before he can blink. Hands already reaching past his neatly packed bag, for the smaller satchel that so carefully contains the boons. Gifts are not boons, he wagers. And three times he denied the boons so offered to him and three times was he thwarted with words and purposeful actions. They must be important, Horatio reasons, for them to be given to him. But he is Horatio: the witness, the watcher- when has he ever been important enough for something as big as this? 

Horatio relents, and inspects the things three given to him by the witches; wonders on their meanings. Some herbs, a lantern, and a knife? Practical, much like himself, but ultimately useless if used incorrectly without knowledge.

He plans to know their purpose come high or low tide, because not knowing is not in his nature. 

Horatio starts as he sees best, in the order they were given to him. 

The maiden’s gift he sees, is several things: herbs that look randomly tossed together that, he tilts his head confused, together seem to have no collective meaning? There is rue (regret) and yarrow (a healing herb, meaning war?- does she think him jaundiced? Does she think him power hungry and foolish?) yew (death and life?), black poplar (courage) and holly (peace and goodwill- guardian against evil spirits and bad luck), lamb’s ear (support) and mistletoe (affection and love???), wisteria (youth and poetry, welcome and steadiness) and clover (domestic virtue) and oleander (beauty and grace or caution); enough for a bouquet, enough for a wreath, with the youth of some of these twigs, but a confusing one at that. One with a very conflicting meaning- does the maiden think him a sad warmonger? 

Does she warn him of a future life or future death, one with care and peace and youth and beauty? What foes does she think he will fight, to warrant a message as confusing as this? What future- if he has one- is he to expect?

His hand hits something when he moves to tie the string holding the bundle back together; a small rock, with a hole in the center, the string looped thrice through it, hangs at the edge of the rope. He wonders how he missed it before, he wonders if it was there before. 

It’s a curiosity; maybe a worry stone, Horatio tells himself, and nothing more. He feels like he’s lying to himself, something he’s tried not to do since before Hamlet died, but it is a habit hard to break. It’s hard to tell which thoughts are the truth, and which are the lies, after a while. They all have a tendency to get mixed together so. 

Moving on, Horatio inspects the lantern. A pretty thing indeed, he acknowledges, with a strangely metallic sheen- dark and silver in the watery light that wavers through his small window- but ultimately nothing to explain his interest. He inspects it all around, the simple thing that surely holds more to it if it was once the possession of a witch. Horatio feels around the walls of glass, curls his hands over the innocuous handles, inspects the grip of the metal wrapping around it. There is nothing, he thinks, at least until his hands run along the bottom, expecting smoothness and finding something else. 

A single word, one that blurs before his eyes, unreadable even when he squints. He thinks it might begin with an “O” , or maybe an “A”and end with “d”, or maybe an “a”. He has always been good at word games (it’s why he and Hamlet go along so well, at first; willing to rhyme and banter when all their other roommates grew tired of the fast-paced conversation) so on the floor he sits, listing out all the words he can think of. The list begins with “Onward” and ends when his hand slips and he finds “Ophelia” scrawled across his paper in messy cursive. 

Horatio carries on, as he always does. 

The knife, Horatio thinks, is exactly what it appears to be, unlike the witch who wielded it. 

Except when he unsheathes it, he finds a very different blade than the basic one that he had pictured. Rather than smooth and sharp on both sides, he discovers that the sword is less a sword and more shaped as a hunting knife. The top half, more straight than the dangerous curve of the bottom, has a series of sharp, tooth-like ridges close to the handle of the blade. Though the blade itself is a knife in appearance, it has the grip and pommel of a sword. The grip of the blade is a metal base, made of the same silvery metal that the lantern is, with carved wood covering it except for the pommel- covered in shapes that appear as vines one moment and curling brambles the next. 

The pommel is, Horatio discovers as he peers at it closely, in the careful shape of clasped hands, reaching for each other in help. He does not know if he feels relief that it is not in the familiar curling waves and magnificent ship cresting over them- the crest of Elsinore. He feels something though, that weighs heavy in his stomach. He calls it a stomach ache rather than longing and leaves it at that. 

There is yelling and loud thumping on the deck above. Horatio is so tired with revelations for today, but nonetheless he goes up-deck to investigate.


	8. CHAPTER 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient with me! This has some minor minor crossovers as well. Anyway hope you enjoy the chapter!

The commotion, as it turns out, is because pirates have been spotted on the horizon, and they are quickly gaining on them. 

The pirate ship itself is something nondescript but terrible: because of it’s flag, because it’s great, because they all know that something terrible will become of them when they are overtaken finally. 

And overtaken they are, by a regal woman, older in her years, hair braided and set back in a crown, fitting as kingly as she is. 

Her hair is bone white, bleached by the sun and years at sea and her eyes are blue flint, hard and unforgiving as the sea, with a spark to them that promises things to those who obey her. 

And when she boards their ship, eyes skimming over the crowd of gathered crew and patrons, too frightened and to foreign to violence to fight back, her eyes seem to lock a moment with Horatio’s and they are so very very blur. Horatio thinks she’s looking for those who might fight; he might, but he is so very weary of war. He is a boy built for books and quiet, not war and battle cries and crying in the late nights alone. 

But her crew that joins her on deck appears to be all or mostly women, those who have left their lives on land and husbands behind without enough ccare to look back. One he sees for a moment out of the corner of his eye, with hair short and blonde; blonde like sunshine blonde like amber, blonde like polished bronze, cropped to the ears. Her hands are steady.

His head turns without a thought, without control, and he is flying across the deck before he can think clearly enough. And her head is turning too, when she hears his feet stutterig across deck. And while she and the women around her initially move to draw their swords and take arms against him, he locks eyes with the blonde pirate and her eyes are wide and so so blue. Her hands are steady as she drops her sword.

And they are laughing and Ophelia is hugging Horatio with enough strength to break bone, and they are spinning and twirling and HERE and TOGETHER. 

Horatio might be crying, he’s not sure, but he’s grinning so hard his face hurts. Ophelia is definitely crying, laughing as she is, and Horatio is so full of great relief that he feels as if his ribs may break from his heart pressing against his sternum. 

Finally, finally, they stop spinning long enough to breathe together, foreheads pressed gently against each other, breathing in together: in and out, out and in. 

Finally, finally, they stop and just breathe, just rest and bask in the presence of each other.

And then the silence breaks with Ophelia’s voice and Horatio’s hesrt drops to his stomach. 

“But where oh where is Hamlet?” Ophelia laughs out, “how is my dear brother Laertes? Tell me Horatio, stay silent no longer- what have I missed in my absence from Elsinore?” she questions, eyes wide and wondering, but bright. 

And in that moment Horatio hates himself for ever telling Hamlet of his father’s ghost, for starting this whole wretched retribution and folly. 

His expression must tell something to Ophelia of his grief, and within a moment her expression falls as well. 

“There is much that has happened Ophelia, many things, that bring much grief and harrow- I” he stutters and chokes up, “I could do nothing but watch” he breaks off, already voice thick and broken. And something in Ophelia’s expression shatters, the walls that she must have built up around herself in her absence to defend herself crack. 

Instead of wailing however, she, not breaking eye contact from his wet and bleary expression, calls out to her captain thus “Grant us a moment of leave please, Captain Turner, we have things to discuss between old friends that does not warrent others overhearing” she says. 

Ophelia’s captain pauses from her smooth negotiation with the cowering owners of the ship, glances at them. Glances again when she spots Horatio’s cracked and teary face and Ophelia’s stony counterance and wide eyes, barely holding on. Her expression softens a fraction, blue eyes turning down at the end, mouth twisted in an open expression, she calls back, a tad softer than she might’ve before “go below decks and help him pack his things lass; he’s staying here no longer, with us he’s coming it appears- the ship thinks he’s bad luck and you know what they do to those in the Lady’s shadow better than most” 

Ophelia doesn’t even wait for her captain to finish speaking before she’s off, dragging him along with her as if she will find where she’s going by sheer force if she has to. 

And Horatio is left to wonder what exactly the Captain’s words meant as well as how he is going to tell Ophelia the whole story, sordid and sad and all. 

His hands, for once, are steady as he goes along.


	9. CHAPTER 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late y'all! Got caught up in depression and starting classes again so it's been real busy. Might be a while before I update again but here have some Ophelia & Horatio interaction while I go write some more!!!

Horatio tells her, how can he not? The story spilling out like waves, dragging her back into Elsinore and all its problems again like a whirlpool, helpless to fight against- Ophelia is dragged into the story and the heartache again, word by word, mistake by mistake, sorrow by sorrow. 

Ophelia and her grief is something great and vast. Terrifying like the ocean, because once the storm besets you there is nothing left to do but hold on and pray. They are below deck, hidden away in a storage room, a corner where no one will check.

Horatio’s first thoughts are of this when he is alone with her. He knows not what he will do when that rage like grief crashes over him as well. 

Grief, like storms, can be withstood. But it is the waiting for them that is truly terrible, not withstanding the storm; because you- well, you never know how hard it will hit- what will be left standing at the end. But what truly differentiates the storm and the eye is the fear that you will not be strong enough to live through it, to withstand it. 

Ophelia’s grief, like a storm, shatters glass and breaks windows. Her mantle is torn apart and she rages, weeps openly and Horatio finds himself shedding tears in kind- for it is the kind of grief that you do not and should not weather alone.


	10. CHAPTER 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack. Got distracted writing 6k of an Ophelia short story. But I'm back at writing this story and it's definitely gonna get updated a lot more frequently than it has been as of late.

The storm of Ophelia’s grief passes, as all things do. Horatio is left to pick up the pieces, as he always is. This time however, there is something different; he is not alone. And he does not mind searching through the wreckage to piece together the remains. 

When it ends, when Ophelia comes back to herself, Horatio and she are sitting side by side on the floor of his cabin. His hand is rubbing soothing circles on her back, and Horatio is humming a song that his mother used to sing to him at night to soothe his night terrors. Neither Horatio nor Ophelia consider themselves children, but there are some things, timeless, that remain the same. Comfort is one of them.

They find it in each other, in familiarity: long sleepless nights together at the Elsinore before things truly started falling apart, caught up in the mystery and the plotting of how best to raise Hamlet’s spirits the following day. Later on, it became war counsels and frantic whispering sessions on how to bring Hamlet back towards himself, more in mind and spirit than in mood. It’s comfort. 

It’s welcome familiarity that doesn’t mean hallucinations and ghosts that won’t stop haunting your every step and waking moment, bothering you about flower arrangements and the best way to poach eggs. 

It’s welcome, is what it is. 

But like all things it has to come to an end. So when Ophelia’s teary eyes have dried, and her jagged breaths have calmed; when the sounds between them have quieted to nothing but the crash of waves and the caw of the gulls; the rocking of the ship and the creaking of the boards. When everything has calmed down, then does Ophelia speak. 

“So it truly is us, merely and just, as the survivors? Truly no others?”

“Everyone who wasn’t killed, left. So truly, we are the last witnesses. There are few left who inhabit the haunted and cursed grounds of Elsinore. Few who wish to remember what happened. When Fortinbras came to assess the damage and reconstruct, he brought with him his own men and maids. Everyone else, well. There are few who would want to stay after the events that transpired.”

“The grounds are haunted? Truly?”

“Not in the way that you or I might characterise it; it’s haunted by memories, by emotions and chaos, blood soaked into the ground.”

“Just us then.” Ophelia echoes softly. Ophelia doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to. 

“Well” Ophelia cracks the silence between them like she cracks her joints as she creakily gets up, “It’s best time that we moved on from such dire and dreary things. What have you here to gather? You’re leaving with us, mind you, and now that I’ve found you I am very hesitant to let you out of my sight. Tell me what you wish to gather and keep and we shall move on from there.”

“Give me a moment” Horatio rises from his seat, “I need to gather what I own that’s of importance.” He smiles up at her, “Once I have gathered what is necessary, you need worry not about where I shall be little sister, it shall be by your side.”

“Bully for you then,” Ophelia then says, “I’m going to the upperdecks to check on the situation. It’s been too quiet for the likes of me. Call if you need help or think some harm has befallen me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo. UPDATE TIME: 
> 
> I've published a book!! 2 books actually. 
> 
> One of them is an original short prose story called Corvids don't care for a god they can't eat, and the other is Wide Eyes, Steady Hands. 
> 
> They're for sale at lulu.com and should be up for sale on amazon (if it actually goes through with the printing deal) within the next couple of weeks. 
> 
> ANYWAY, HIT ME UP IF YOU'RE INTERESTED AND I CAN GET YOU DEALS. 
> 
> I've worked my ass off on editing them over the past couple months and I'm ridiculously proud of myself. So check them out if you're interested and want to help me pay for college!


	11. CHAPTER 11

When she finally leaves her crew up above to ‘deal’ with the situation, Ophelia joins Horatio down below to gather his things. 

“Oh!” she exclaims, when her eyes alight on the mess of the first gift when they arrive at his cabin, “you were making protection crowns? Did you miss me that much?” She teases. “Run into much trouble without me?” She asks laughingly. 

“A bit” Horatio responds, steady as always but cracking a smile in the face of her joy, “I’ll have to tell you later. It’s been... interesting is the best phrase for it” 

“Good interesting or bad interesting?” Ophelia tilts her head, pausing in packing his poor books haphazardly into his side bag.

Horatio pauses, and his silence is telling. Ophelia sobers up and straightens up, lowering her voice: “Then it’s good you’re coming with us then. We have much to discuss. Much has happened to me as well. The things I have witnessed” she pauses, and doesn’t finish; doesn’t seem to have the words to. 

They begin packing his things, idle chatter and banter thrown back and forth, but it is good to be in her bright company: Horatio has missed Ophelia, his best friend, more than words can say. 

The undercurrent of their discussion however, is laced with concern for each other: what has the other witnessed that is so vital to discuss- what is scaring the other so much that they won’t talk about it? That it shadows their eyes and their hands?


	12. CHAPTER 12

“Horatio” Ophelia starts, “how might I be so curious to ask, did you manage to receive a seeing stone?” 

“Ophelia” Horatio shoots back, “when were you going to tell me that you’ve been witch-blessed?”

“Says the boy witch-blessed thrice” Ophelia slings back, sharp and quick as an arrow. “And it’s goddess-blessed actually,” Ophelia clarifies, which clarifies absolutely nothing for Horatio. 

“And how are you able to know that, sister dearest?” Horatio asks, simply and cautiously, placing the question at her feet for her perusal. It’s easier than dealing with the information she’s given him. He’ll inspect that later and determine what it is that she means and what it means to him that she’s chosen to share it with him. 

Ophelia stops, eyes wide and then she laughs, her whole body shaking loose the tension as her shoulders fold and quiver. “Oh how I have missed you dearest Horatio! I shall tell you, I promise, but it is not completely my story for telling, I must warn you: I know not how much of it you’ll believe, but if your travels have been anything like mine it should mean that you know already some of my plights!”

“I have a feeling that our stories might be similar in nature,” Horatio responds dryly. “There is very little that you might share with me that I’d find difficult to believe.” 

“OH!” Ophelia shrieks, delighted, “it looks like there’s certainly a tale there! Hopefully a good one you’re willing to share!” 

“Whether it’s good or not remains to be seen,” Horatio says, turning away abruptly to finish packing his witch-gifts and roll away his clothes back into his satchel. “But a story it definitely is,” he adds, “and a story you shall hear, if you’re willing to suffer along through my tale-telling abilities.” He grins. 

Ophelia’s delighted laughter is his only response, and Horatio smiles at the simplicity of the actions, of the movement between them. It’s good to have familiar company again, he thinks. Good to not be alone.


	13. CHAPTER 13

There is much of Horatio’s things that they need to sort through: most carefully and most important (besides his maps) would be the gifts from the witches three, the seeing stone among them. 

Ophelia chatters idly as she helps him roll his clothes and maps carefully, but it is the gifts that Horatio and Ophelia avoid, at the center of the room, with a determined sort of mentality. While Ophelia, Horatio sees, continually sneaks glances at them out of the corner of her eye; Horatio himself studiously prevents himself from even glancing in that general direction. 

His travels have brought him nothing but troubles, and unwanted attention from dangerous beings, among other things. 

At this point, attention is the last thing that Horatio wants. There is too much going on, and too soon. Horatio left Elsinore to avoid the problems brought about by memories and other people. And here he is, miles away from Denmark, on unfamiliar waters, aching for a home that no longer exists when he should know better. He should know better. And yet still his heart seems stubborn enough to not learn its lesson. 

Ophelia seems stuck however, on the little details of his story. She refuses to dismiss it as happenstance and circumstances beyond control, and is of the belief that every little word and phrasing has irreplaceable meaning. Horatio knows she’s probably right, but denial is a comfortable state of existence for him. 

Furthermore, she says the damnedest things. Such as: 

“I think” Ophelia says, “that you give yourself too little credit. They weren’t asking if you would be granted a boon- they were asking if you would grant them one.”

“I’m- what?” Horatio stutters, lost, “I made no promises, I have no words to give that aren’t as unlucky as I. What could they possibly want from me?”

“Many things” Ophelia says. “Witches like to learn from experience, not necessarily their own. They hoard knowledge, and what are you, my dear friend, but a font of knowledge?” 

“Absolutely preposterous” Horatio defends, “tragedy is not an everyday occurrence, nor is it a coveted one. What more could they learn from I, and not another man or woman? I’ve met plenty on my travels, as I’m sure you have as well. What would make my knowledge so special?”

“Haven’t you noticed yet, Horatio?” Ophelia sobers, “you are drawn to tragedy, the same way that grief is drawn to death. You follow it for familiarity.”

“Maybe it follows me.” Horatio says bitterly, “maybe it is drawn to me the way maggots and flies are drawn to rotting meat. Maybe I am the curse and it is merely the inevitable outcome.”

“Maybe” Ophelia doesn’t deny, “but wouldn’t you have noticed people dropping dead in the streets by now, following your footprints?” She jokes. “If that is the case then maybe we’re both cursed.”

“Maybe” Horatio agrees, and no more on the topic is said. It stays with him however: what would Ophelia know of what witches want, what witches are? Furthermore, what could the witches want from him? What good does he have to give? 

Horatio is far past the time from since he believed his presence brought any good. 

Changing the subject is a difficult and diffident thing. Difficult but not impossible, but Ophelia tries nonetheless to divert it, as one does a river. 

“Horatio” she says sadly, “haven’t you figured out yet, that those who know Death are yet doomed to walk with Him? To know Him? To speak with Him as an old friend?” Ophelia demurs bitterly, “You’re smarter than this, brother. Death and I are old friends by now.”

“What-but? You never let on, Ophelia. For how long? From when since?” 

“I didn’t realise, not at first. But around the time I realised that my plan with Hamlet to play at madness and play the elders was more Hamlet’s plan alone than ours together. Moreso when I realised what and who exactly, my father died from.” 

“Ophelia…”

“Don’t. I didn’t truly know until I drowned. Or tried to at least.”

“When-?”

“Not when my ‘body’ was found. Later. On my travels. I was taken to a place that might as well have been Purgatory, as it seemed neither hellish, nor heavenly in nature. It was merely Unknown. Death led me to my way out, the lady who would later become my Captain, Lady Turner.”

“...”

“What? Wait. You don’t think-?”

“But you know me, and oh how I do-”

“-That with a way out?”

“-There’s always a way back in!”

**

“But what would we want to go back there for? I know my reasons, selfish as they may be but Horatio. Horatio, dearest brother, are you certain that this is a good idea? That this is what you want to do?”

Horatio rests his hands onto Ophelia’s steady ones in the room that they share, quiet saturated around them. “Ophelia, you know that I can’t leave him there. That if there is even the slightest possibility of finding him again, that I have-- I have to take it.” Horatio’s voice cracks at the latter part of the sentence but he continues on: “I know how he hurt you-”

“-I know how he hurt YOU, Horatio. You can’t assume that I’d forget that.” Ophelia interrupts. 

“But he hurt you too; hurt you more,” Horatio plows on through the end of Ophelia’s sentence, barely waiting for her to finish the thought. “You can’t assume that I wouldn’t care about your opinions; you are the only one who understands the situation, fully and without reservations. Is it truly a good idea to go into the Unknown and seek him out? There’s danger in searching, we both know this. What of the other things there that we might find instead?”

“Horatio,” Ophelia starts, “He’s all alone. He’s ALONE. Despite him, despite everything, that is an afterlife that I wish upon no one, least of all him. Please,” she says. “Please.”

Horatio’s heart is aching, full to the brim with love for his pseudo-sister, and cautious hope. Hope that he has never let himself feel, for fear of what it might bring if it were to be cracked. 

“Okay” Horatio says. “Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s find and fetch Hamlet back from the Beyond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to pick up, truly now. I'll do my best not to leave you hanging again, I was at Katsucon this past weekend and got caught up in the everythingness jaja!!
> 
> Comments and Kudos are welcome!


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